


Had You Lived A Few Centuries Ago

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Crack, Gen, Middle Ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:29:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson said it first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Had You Lived A Few Centuries Ago

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been threatening to write this one for a while.

_London Docks, April 1193_

Sir John stepped off the ship and into the familiar stench of London, leaning heavily on the stout staff that had replaced his sword. The leech had told him that the damage done to his left arm by a curved Saracen blade meant that the knight would never be able to bear his two-handed broadsword again. That, united with the seasickness and the fever that swept through the shipful of returning wounded – as if by a vengeful God angered at their inability to rescue the Holy Land from Saladin – it was Christ’s own miracle that he’d lived to see this day.

He had left England a hale and hearty knight under King Richard; he returned a broken man. His legs still trembled from the fever; his entire worldly goods consisted of a pack across his back and a handful of silver coins in his purse; and he had no place to call a home. True, there was land held by Watson – by his older brother Sir Henry, and the bitterness between them meant that there would be no homecoming for the returned soldier; he was John Lackland as surely as was the King’s brother himself. Now there remained only to find some low place to rest his head before deciding what to do for the remainder of his life.

But as he sat over his ale and beef stew at a tavern near the dock, a familiar voice hailed him. “John Watson!”

Bewildered, Sir John looked at the approaching monk, who bore baskets of herbs and vegetables under each arm – before he recognized the face. “Michael Stamford!” he cried, glad of a familiar face, and stood to embrace his old schoolmate.

The monk grinned ruefully. “Sir John, I should say.”

John laughed for the first time in a long time. “And Brother Michael, true?” He indicated the seat beside him.

“I never left the monastery,” Stamford said cheerily, setting down his wares and raising his hand to catch the tavern-owner’s eye. “It was only a matter of time before I took the tonsure. Now I teach the lads - vile little toads, just the way we used to be. But what of you, John? You’re brown as a berry and thin as a beggar.”

So they passed the afternoon, speaking of their lives. Sir John told his old friend of his dreadful excursion.

Stamford bowed his head over his mug of ale. “I should have seen that you’d come from Jerusalem,” he said, “as you’ve a palm leaf pinned to your surcoat as if it were a jeweled brooch.” The monk made a face. “God’s heart, I sound like that fellow who was here two days ago.”

“Fellow?” Sir John asked.

Stamford shuddered. “Irishman. From Sherlockstown, he said, just looking for lodgings in London. Speaking of which, do you have a place to stay in London, John?”

Sir John shook his head. “None at all. That was the second thing I needed to do today.”

Brother Michael beamed. “Come back to the abbey with me, John. Brother Gregory will be pleased to offer you a cell, though I’m afraid Lauds and pottage are not the minstrelsy and venison that is the wont of a King’s knight.”

“Nor is it the screams of the wounded and the worm-riddled bread of a soldier in foreign lands,” Sir John countered with a sad smile. “I’d like that very much, Stamford.” He paid for his meal and took up his staff once again.

As they crossed the church square on their way to the monastery, John wrinkled his nose. “God’s breath, I’d forgotten how London reeks. Did someone burn down a pigsty?”

Brother Michael crossed himself as they passed a large blackened, greasy spot on the cobbles that made the foul smell. “Two days ago that man came from Sherlockstown. The things he said… John, he just looked at people and told them everything about them – their past, their parentage, where they’d been raised, what they did for a living, what sorrowed them that they’d never told anyone – and it was all true!”

Sir John shuddered and crossed himself as well. “Witchcraft!”

The monk nodded grimly. “Aye. Praise Christ, we caught and burned him before anyone fell under his spell.”


End file.
